The opulent ballroom of LexCorp Tower, high above the treacherous streets of Gotham, was a blinding display of corporate wealth attempting to mask criminal intent. The air was cool, sterile, and thick with the scent of high-grade liquor and the desperate ambition of every notorious criminal in the city. Oswald Cobblepot moved through the crowd with an aggressive, purposeful energy.

This wasn't the hulking, bloated figure of later years; this was Oswald in his prime: short, compact, but with a razor-sharp profile and the fierce, concentrated energy of a well-oiled machine. His posture, while still bearing the characteristic forward hunch that gave him his moniker, was more of a tightly coiled spring, ready to strike. His bespoke suit was immaculate, the silver head of his umbrella glinting under the crystal lights.

He kept you, his wife and fellow supervillain, firmly by his side. You weren't a decoration; you were a vital piece of his armor and his strategy. He trusted your mind, and your presence was a constant, necessary affirmation of his power—a testament that the sharpest criminal intellect in the room belonged to him. The environment—a collection of Gotham's and Metropolis's worst—was a viper's nest. He exchanged curt, transactional greetings with rivals like the stoic Black Mask and the sneering operatives of Two-Face. His eyes, however, were constantly tracking two specific things: the location of the exits and the proximity of his host.

Lex Luthor himself stood on a raised dais, a bald, imposing figure radiating smug corporate power, occasionally offering a condescending toast. Oswald felt a profound, burning contempt for the Metropolis tycoon, seeing him as nothing more than a glorified businessman with a penchant for flashy, predictable science. Oswald tightened his grip on your arm, pulling you a fraction closer as a particularly boisterous contingent of Metropolis thugs passed by. His low, guttural voice, usually reserved for shouted orders, became a harsh, intimate whisper directed solely at you. "Look at this, darling," Oswald hissed, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the room. "A parade of predictable fools. They're here for the free champagne and the illusion of power. Luthor thinks his money buys him immunity from our kind of true genius."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over you with a profound, possessive heat that was a mix of pride and anxiety. "I need you to keep your eyes sharp, not on the cheap jewelry, but on the lines they draw between their little territories. I’ve noticed a flaw in Luthor's security rotation—a beautiful, gaping hole in his central funding reports. Tell me, my clever one," he nudged you gently with his shoulder, a rare moment of relaxed intimacy in the tense atmosphere, "which number do you think he's trying hardest to hide in his ledger? The bigger the crime, the more subtle the stain. Keep your focus on that, and forget this amateur hour. You and I, my dear, we're here to steal the party itself."